Chapter Twenty

The Eleventh Dragon Flight came over the wooded hillcrest just as the sky lightened. Ahead of them was the Roche dragon field.

Hal hadn't dared scout the base more than once, for fear the Roche would realize they were the target. But he assumed almost all armies were the same, and their leaders despised anyone wanting to sleep past a time when he could see his hand in front of his face.

Roche soldiers were, indeed, straggling out of their huts and barracks toward morning formation, and there were three dragons being saddled, prepared for flight.

The Eleventh was in a shallow vee, Hal in front.

Each dragon carried a flier and one archer, except for Vad Feccia's monster. Behind Feccia rode Serjeant Te, who not only had a bow like the others, but a ready dagger.

Hal had told Feccia that Te would be his passenger, and added, "He'll be most helpful to you, and make sure you don't stumble over any more tree roots."

Feccia had protested volubly about being misunderstood, and that he was as proud to be taking part in this revenge attack as anyone, smiling, but his eyes held pure hate for Hal Kailas.

Hal might have worried about being backshot, but not with Te around, and especially not since he'd learned, in his cavalry days, to turn his back on no one.

The dragons overflew the Roche formation, crossbow bolts raining down, and even a few of the archers managing aimed shots. They dove on the three dragons, who were barely awake. One reared, and Saslic's Nont ripped his throat open. The second took three bolts in his chest, thrashed, and died.

The last's wings flared, and he stumbled forward, trying to get aloft, as Sir Loren's dragon tore the rider away, and Garadice's beast's tail smashed its neck.

They banked back, and Hal motioned for a landing. They touched down, and, as ordered, the archers tumbled off, and, carefully picking targets, began their killing.

Hal motioned his dragons up, and they took off again, flying low across the field, shooting at anything that moved.

The Roche base was a howl of confusion and disarray, much, Hal thought, like the Eleventh must have been when the Roche came a-raiding.

He steered Storm over one of the camouflage nets, very low, and the beast seemed to know what he wanted, reaching out and grabbing the net, then, flapping hard, it went for the sky.

The net was far heavier than Hal had figured, and Storm was about to fall out of the sky when, to his considerable surprise, Feccia's dragon was on the net, just beyond Storm's wing-reach, lifting, and then Garadice's dragon was alongside, and the net was coming up and away.

It was like overturning a rock to see scorpions scatter. Under the net were the dragon pens, the monsters screaming in surprise at the sunlight, fliers running for their beasts, handlers trying to get them ready to take to the air.

Hal grabbed the bugle hanging from one of Storm's head-spikes, tootled unmusically, but his flight heard, and responded.

The dragons swept down across the dragon pens, their riders firing at the beasts, banked back, and made another attack.

Hal motioned ahead, seeing his infantrymen beset by Roche. One was down, then the Roche saw the on-rushing dragons, broke and ran.

Hal brought the dragons down, and the archers scrambled aboard, one pulling the wounded man with him.

Then the dragons were stumbling forward, gracelessly leaving the ground, becoming instantly elegant as they climbed for the heights, back toward the Deraine lines.

But that was not enough. That evening, at dusk, Hal brought his dragons back, with a fresh group of archers.

There were two Roche dragons in the air, and they went down under a hail of crossbow bolts.

The dragons dove, landed their archers, and again, swept back and forth across the base, this time tearing away the second net.

Hal had brought a new weapon with him—thin glass wine bottles filled with lamp oil, and given a conjuration to burn.

The bottles were scattered by the fliers, flaring into life as they struck and smashed.

Flames grew, jumped to the camouflage, spread to huts and barracks.

Other dragons were shot down as they stumbled, screaming, out of their burning pens, their masters shot down in cold blood, no mercy being given.

Then the raiders were gone.

Hal was not through with the Roche.

Again, he came back at dawn, and this time there was little to burn, few to kill. But the dragon fliers methodically combed the fields, shooting down any Roche they saw.

They made one more pass, each flier dropping a pennon of the Eleventh Flight so the Roche would know who had attacked them.

Two days later, word came from spies who'd crossed over the lines.

The Roche squadron had been all but obliterated, with no more than two or three fliers still able to fly, and all dragons killed.

The unit was broken up, its few survivors sent to other Roche dragon flights. This made Hal grin, for these broken men would surely tell the tale, and Roche morale would further dip.

Another report came—responsibility for the Roche dragons opposing the First Army had been taken over by Ky Bayle Yasin, and his newly established Black Dragon Squadron.

Some looked fearful, but Hal nodded in satisfaction.

Now he would get a chance, he hoped, to fight the man he illogically felt a grudge against, going all the way back to the death of Athelny of the Dragons.